A problem named Draco
by Naesy
Summary: Draco hasn’t been an Auror in the same office as Harry for more than three days and he’s already causing trouble. Suddenly, Harry’s feeling like he’s being watched, things are going missing in his office, and he’s somehow acquired an extra shadow. DMHP.
1. Prologue: Fear of extinction

**Summary**: Draco hasn't been an Auror in the same office as Harry for more than three days and he's already making trouble. Suddenly, Harry's feeling like he's being watched, things are going missing in his office, and he's somehow acquired an extra shadow, a very large, talking one at that. But Harry is about to learn that all is not as it seems, all are not as _they_ seem, and Harry's future is not as he'd planned it ever to be. Ignores DH (Humour/Crack, Romance/Fluff, Angst).

**A/N**: Dedicated to Alaina the Goddess, because she is a bright spark in what can be an otherwise dark and dreary world. Plus, she encourages me to write more; a past-time that is severely worrying for her but wonderful for me. Go, you goddess, you!

**A problem named Draco**

**By Naesy **

**Prologue: Fear of extinction**

One day, when Harry Potter had been in the final months of his fifth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, something decidedly odd happened.

He woke up mid-way through a History of Magic class.

Even more startling, he proceeded to listen to Professor Binns' droning diatribe for around five minutes.

At first when it had happened, he'd been utterly confused. He'd taken a moment to glance around in a mild daze, wondering what had roused him. It couldn't have been Hermione and her annoyingly sharp kicking-foot, for – _Oh, my_…. Even _she_ was asleep at that point in time! He frowned. And, apparently... snoring! Quite loudly, too. He quirked an eyebrow amusingly.

His eyes quickly sought out the front of the classroom to help him unravel this growing mystery and, instantly, he knew why all of this had come about.

For there, up in the air, by the teacher's side, was a moving golden ball. A Snitch.

Professor Binns was teaching Quidditch.

…QUIDDITCH!

Well, the, er, _history_ of Quidditch at least, anyway.

But he even appeared to be using devices! To - to assist his _teaching_!

_Blimey,_ Harry thought. He never thought he'd 'see the day.' Of course, he and just about everyone else had been sleeping through most of Binns' classes for _years_, so it was always possible that Binns had improved his teaching style long ago, and no one, with the exception of maybe Hermione Granger, had even noticed.

But Professor Binns' 'teaching style' had only improved so far. His ghostly face was still just as expressionless as it had always been and his tone of voice hadn't altered a fraction from that far away day when Harry had first attended his class:

"_Of course, Quidditch provided a welcome distraction for the warlocks at the time, who were failing in their attempts at diplomacy with the highland trolls, many of which were spreading even further south, causing much death and destruction. __But poor warlock-troll relations were not the only factor affecting the uptake of Quidditch. In the following three decades, a number of other significant events contributed to its growing popularity, most notably__…__" _

Harry watched the Snitch hover beside the professor's transparent head and pieced together what had just happened. The Seeker in him must have sprung to life; like a bird of prey, his finely tuned senses had, against all odds, detected the whisper-soft fluttering sound of the Snitch over the low rumble of his classmates' snoring. And, somehow, Harry had stirred.

He blinked several times, smirked at the uniqueness of the situation, and then sat upright.

_"_…_and other historical records tell us that Quidditch game play has changed dramatically over the course of history. The diary of Gertie Kettle outlines a game originally consisting of fewer balls…__"_

He watched the Snitch zip about in the air a little with a tiny smile, and... he found himself listening.

His hand sought out his quill; he dipped the hungry tip into the black ink and began to scratch some words across his parchment.

_"…and it was at that point that the Bludgers, originally known as Blooders, were eventually added__…__"_

Harry'd flicked through a number of Quidditch books before, but he'd never taken much interest in the actual progression of Quidditch through time until now. He suspected that his 'extremely fun life' of late might have something to do with: Umbridge, his nightmares, his gut-wrenching concerns about Voldemort... 'Crazily', the history of Quidditch seemed like a worthwhile, enticingly-lighthearted distraction from all of that now.

"_It was in 1269 when the Snidget bird was first introduced to the game__…__ " _

1269. Snidget bird. He wrote that down.

A whirring sound then grabbed his attention. He looked upright as a magical photo projector was activated. A bewitched moving picture, illuminated and bright against the darkness of the surrounding classroom, suddenly appeared on a large screen beside Professor Binns' desk.

Harry widened his eyes, instantly captivated.

The moving picture was of a golden Snidget bird in full-flight; the image had been slowed to ensure the bird's brilliant motion through the air could be more easily appreciated by the human eye.

"_The Snidget was incorporated into the game rules. A game was not declared over until the Hunter - or the Seeker, as they were later called - had caught the Snidget bird and killed it…"_

_Wait._

They killed it…?

Harry Potter stared at the repetitive, moving image of the yellow, tiny bird, batting its wings madly against a strong wind and darting from the bottom right hand corner to the upper left hand part of the bewitched picture.

At that point, the strange moment of listening in Professor Binns' class got even stranger for Harry. He became less interested in Quidditch and more interested in the plight of a tiny bird, a bird he'd never really thought much about before.

"_Due to the threat of extinction, the use of the bird in Quidditch games was outlawed. The Golden Snitch, a bewitched metallic ball with wings developed by Bowman Wright in the early 1500s, took the place of the bird in Quidditch…" _

He leaned forward in his chair and watched the bird in action over and over again: first, it hovered, and then it zoomed forward, up and into the air. Its eyes were bright, its beak long and pointed, and its body: tiny and round.

The bird was so small, so – so fragile.

Harry swallowed.

It was so _beautiful_.

And all it wanted was to be left alone, to be free. To fly wherever it wanted, and to live, to just _live_.

But they _used_ it.

They hunted it. They caught it. They held it. They squashed it.

They_ killed_ it.

And they nearly wiped the entire species off the face of the earth in the process.

"_In the following century, the game of Quidditch then spread to the continent, and then, one century following that, historical records indicate that the game reached as far east as…" _

Harry sank low in his chair and sighed. He put his quill down and rested his chin glumly on his hand. He watched the bird take to flight again – he almost wanted it to escape the four walls of the picture, to zip through an open window, and to rise into the big open sky beyond the school - and he felt something in his heart finally lift.

In spite of the odds, the Snidget bird, according to Professor Binns, had survived. Even better, the species had begun to flourish again, growing stronger in numbers with each passing day. They were still a protected species, but the future was looking good, _very _good.

"_Troll relations worsened over the course of the following century. Several Muggle villages were destroyed along the Torriden ranges. Goblins at the time were also growing in numbers along the northern shores of…"_

And just like that, Professor Binns was back onto goblin wars and blood-thirsty trolls, and Harry Potter was again fast asleep. But unlike his usual experience, his dreams that day (and for several weeks after) weren't filled with a large slithering snake, fiery-red slitted eyes, and an ominous feeling of what was yet to come.

Instead, he dreamt of lightness and air and sun.

He dreamt of a future, a time when he had wings – bright yellow, rapidly-fluttering wings; a future where he was not in danger of being crushed by those around him, by those who needed him for their own ends.

A future in which he was free.

When he woke later, he considered sharing this strange and unexpected experience with Ron and Hermione on the way to the next class, but he decided against it. Something inside of him urged him to keep it secret, to keep the event as something special just for him.

Just like something inside of him now desperately wanted to attain and hold, more than anything, the sort of future he'd experienced in his dreams. Well, he could probably do without the _actual_ wings. But a future where the sky, the whole world was his; where nothing held him back? He wanted that life, he _wanted _it. And he was beginning to realise why, in greater depth, he'd been so angry about everything and everyone all year.

He'd been a caged bird all his life, and either that cage was growing smaller or he was growing too big for it, and right now, it was beginning to stifle him more than he could possibly express.

In the following two years that were to come, Harry Potter didn't hunt Snitches or Horcruxes - not really. He hunted Snidgets, or at least the life they too should have been gifted with. He was determined that, one day, he'd catch it.

Harry was yet to know it, but he went on to do just that. He ended a war, shunned the shackles of others' expectations, and carved out a new life for himself in which he felt utterly free. From the age of twenty until the age of twenty-four, he lived in a manner that he'd, at times, never thought possible. So unburdened, so peaceful was he.

But when you're Harry Potter? Peace never lasts. Calmness always precedes a storm. And problems? They tend to follow you.

Literally.

As he found out eight years after that Snidget day.

oooo


	2. Ch1 On the third day of Malfoy

A/N: There will be some tiny jumps back and forth through time over the first few chapters only; after which time, the story should proceed without any flashbacks. Essentially, any gaps in the story early on (i.e. what days one, two, and three were actually all about with regards to Draco) shall be made clear to you fairly soon!**  
**

**1. On the third day of Malfoy**

_Eight years later:_

On a moderately overcast day, in the leafy outskirts of north London, a large clock on a stark white wall struck ten in its usual fashion.

Firstly, warped sounding bells began to chime in a rhythm more random than the human ears could typically take.

Secondly, a tiny wooden door opened and a small golden Snidget bird, perched upon a metal runner, slid out, wobbling slightly from side to side as it moved. There, at the end of its journey forward, it attempted to announce the time in a manner perfected by all fine cuckoo-styled clocks that went before. Unfortunately, _this_ clock was over a century old and required serious maintenance.

Instead of chirping sweetly as it dipped its head forward, opened its beak, and flapped its wings, the Snidget made like an old drunken derelict, three beers past the point of no return. "_Bleh_…_bleh_… _bleh_," the wooden bird seemed to faintly hurl rather than tweet, lunging forward in a rolling fashion, as if truly expelling all contents from its tiny stomach. Meanwhile, one wing wobbled randomly up and down in the air, while the other dangled loosely, almost _sadly_, by its side.

It was a wonder - far that beyond its owner's fathoming - that the clock still managed to run on time. But it did, and the owner wouldn't have replaced it for _anything_.

Proud owner of the antique Snidget clock, Harry Potter, swiftly raised his head from beneath the cave of his arms, noted the time above the flailing bird (and somehow took no notice of its 'flailing-ness'), and gave a truly elated smile. He dropped his head back on his neck and exclaimed to the ceiling above, arms stretched out wide in the air:

"Thank Merlin! And Godric Gryffindor! And - and St. Mungo's! And - just - _all the stars above_!"

This part was not usual. He didn't normally act like an excited, born-again preacher at teatime. Typically, at ten a.m., if he was in the office and not out on some case, he smiled quickly but appreciatively at his much-adored clock (taking no notice of its 'flailing-ness'), fetched his coat, and nipped down the street for a quiet cup of coffee or tea.

But then of course, Harry wouldn't normally _box himself in his own office like a bloody prisoner all day, either_! He frowned. Nor would he feel the need to _over-ward his office door_! _Or_ slip stealthily around Headquarters in a fashion _distinctly different from the norm_, just to avoid one stupid, STUPID person, for that matter either! He clenched his jaw and the edge of the desk angrily, wishing he could clench _something else_, if only laws would allow it.

And Harry, most certainly, would not normally want to sort of yell and - and scream, or – or cry a bit, either! But right now, even the smallest thing was very nearly setting him off.

He heaved a bone-weary sigh out into the world and rubbed his madly-tired eyes.

Things weren't even _remotely normal_ around here anymore. His four-year dream was as good as _over_.

Everything in his life, his beautiful, _beautiful _life, had changed dramatically over the course of a few days, and there was nothing he could do.

He knew who was _entirely_ to blame.

oooo

Harry exhaled sharply but quietly before he begun his journey from his closed office door to the outside world.

With a fortifying breath, he mentally cursed a certain blond (using several expletives he'd surely just made up), swallowed his pride, and then finally proceeded.

A moment later, he was clinging to the office wall, like a confused ninja wearing tweed.

His back and hands were pressed flat against the cool surface. He bent his knees and sidestepped slowly and quietly across the long wall of the general office area, noting how well the desk, topped with folders and other items, plus the rolled out chair hid his moving form. His eyes coasted perfectly across the top of the office equipment, giving him enough vision to avoid his target as he slipped towards the exit.

His heart squeezed tightly in a wave of nostalgia. All of his beloved workmates were about: Snufflehorn, the man who loved everything and everyone, was leaning on Smithers' desk and engaging him in light-hearted banter. Harry's eyes scanned further. Morris was walking about distributing the daily owl-mail with a thoroughly excited and purposeful expression on his face, as if delivery of mail - mail as critical as the latest Quills and Parchment Supplies catalogue to all the Aurors that worked here - was a matter of national security, and he was happy to have been given the opportunity to do it. Nothing out of the ordinary there. Gerard was hobbling about, ready to start (coincidentally at the time as Callida Loven's show on WWN) his daily four-hour outside of the office 'case work' block, which Harry thoroughly suspected took place at home. Possibly with a couple of pumpkin pasties on hand, and probably even a Butterbeer or two to wash them down with. Maureen, dear, dear old Maureen, was thoughtful as always in her disposition, nibbling on a fingernail while reading a file note and glancing out the window, every so often, in quiet consideration.

But Malfoy (his jaw tightened just at the thought of his name) was nowhere in sight.

It struck Harry, though: this felt like he was peering in on his family, and he could almost kid himself that everything was the same here - with these people - as it had always been. But it wasn't. Now it was like he was looking in on them through a glass wall.

Harry made it to the far end of the wall experiencing only one heart-jerking moment: Snufflehorn asked Morris where a certain file was, and Morris gestured over his shoulder towards the desk Harry was currently sliding behind. Harry sank an inch lower (as far as his knees could handle) and froze, hoping Snufflehorn would pass his tufts of hair off as part of the floor-to-ceiling mural on the wall behind him; the one Smithers had painted furiously one afternoon ("Together we can make a difference!") in a fit of feverish passion. Something he experienced towards 'the team' and 'promoting their emotional wellbeing' on a weekly-basis, it seemed.

Panic raged silently through his body as the older man walked towards his mostly-hidden body. But Harry received no sign that he'd been spotted by Snufflehorn; he was thankful that Smithers' mural was such a swirly monstrosity that even _Harry's_ hair could blend into it.

With a final sidestep, a quick diagonal roll across the carpet of the hallway, and he'd made it to the front foyer avoiding everyone and everything he'd hoped to avoid (Malfoy, Malfoy, and also, Malfoy). Thankfully, all the Floo fireplaces in the foyer were inactive too and he found himself, quite happily, alone. Well, a dive-roll across the foyer floor was not how he typically wished to greet visitors.

He stood up swiftly, straightened his jacket and moved towards the wide main door and regathered his dignity. Hands braced against the dark wood, he pressed forward and welcomed the fresh air that rushed inwards and hit him square in the face.

He could beat this, he could! This would not get the better of him!

He squared his shoulders and took a step forward. He had no idea that his luck would take a dramatic nosedive, yet again, as he soon as he exited the building.

That was when Harry first realised that the strange goings-on around here of late were_ nothing _compared to what was to come. For he'd somehow acquired a second shadow; one that was distinctly bigger than his own. It even _talked_.

oooo

Harry Potter walked out into the street, acutely aware that one Gregory Goyle was, quite honestly, _tailing_ him.

Although Harry had been an Auror for years and could detect a well-trained spy from one hundred feet away, spotting Gregory Goyle, at this point in time, was not exactly hard.

"Goyle?" Harry finally stopped and said after fifteen minutes of sporadic glaring at the man over his shoulder.

Goyle stayed completely still behind a thin post with either side of his large body well and truly protruding out into view.

"Goyle," he said more firmly, his forehead crinkling in exasperation. "I can _see_ you."

Goyle stayed still for at least another few seconds before he poked his head tentatively around the side of the pole. "Oh, er, hi, Harry! I mean," his face fell, "P-Potter."

Harry frowned. "Erm. Hello, Goyle." The words felt strange as they slipped from his disbelieving, crooked mouth. Goyle simply stood there blinking oddly at him. Harry sighed and decided to inquire about the obvious. "So." He pulled one hand out of the pocket of his pants and motioned towards the pole. "What're you doing back there?"

"Investigative wor- er, just… going… for, erm, a walk!"

One of Harry's eyebrows swiftly rose to swiftly question Goyle on _that_. "Going for a walk? Behind a pole?"

"Well, yeah… cos I… l-like… looking at poles."

"Poles…?" Harry repeated, wondering faintly when the sky might open up and cave in on him.

"Yeah. I, er," a quick scratch of his head, "like them."

"Right... Poles." Goyle halted anxiously, and then gave him a nod, and then halted anxiously once more, and finally nodded repeatedly with much more enthusiasm. "I see. Well, then…. Just - sort of - have a nice day, won't you?" For the second time today, in so many minutes, words again felt foreign as they left Harry's mouth. But Harry was beyond the point of caring. He was fed up trying to decipher even a tenth of what had happened around him of late.

Instead, he nodded Goyle farewell and attempted to turn and walk away. It would have worked too, only his feet experienced a sudden desire to stay rooted to the ground; his gaze dropped downwards. "Wait," Harry said. "What are you wearing?! On your feet?"

Goyle's face lit up like _Lumos _itself. "Snipflers! Harry, they're called 'snipflers'! And aren't they brilliant?"

_What the...? _

Harry blinked and stared at what were in fact piglet _slippers_ – fluffy and pale pink, with flat, comically-oversized snouts – peeking out from beneath Goyle's wizard robes. Goyle hoisted his robes up and hopped on one foot and then the next, and again, several times over, to show how his 'snipflers' worked in action. "I like the way the ears flop about when I move," he near-giggled. "See?"

Harry searched his brain for when The Prophet might have released the story:_ Gregory Goyle, dropped on head_. But he came up with none. Still, he was not the most avid follower of the news.

Harry went on to seal his own fate as certifiably insane when he murmured: "Right. They're - they're very nice."

"I know! And comfortable too, Harry!"

Harry contemplated asking Goyle why he was wearing them, why he was following him, why Malfoy was an evil twerp, why Harry's life had always been like an uphill battle, and _why it suddenly felt like he'd never be happy again_!

But he thought better of it. Something told him that Gregory Goyle might not have the answer to all of these questions.

Plus Rudolph's and their great caffeine products were calling his name - _screaming _it, actually - and who was he to not answer?

oooo

When the Ministry decided to localise Auror work after the war and created several new headquarters in regional areas to achieve it, Harry had jumped at the chance. It was too tempting to ignore.

Everyone else thought he was clearly mad. It was well-known that, when it came to Auror work in England, only the Central Division of Aurors in London would follow-up on the most high profile of cases, while the more suburban North, South, East and West teams would tend to the lower level matters.

Few wanted to relocate, and the thought of menial work didn't appeal to many either.

The only likely candidates were inexperienced new recruits more clumsy than Tonks, older Aurors nearing retirement, or those nursing war-injuries that, in someway, affected their abilities.

But to Harry? The opportunity was perfect!

Harry could run away a little, leave all and sundry behind, and never look back.

Sure, it meant that his days would, no doubt, be filled with rescuing kittens from trees. But Harry thought that sounded like a holiday. A much-needed holiday. A gorgeous walk in the_ kitten-filled, sunny park _sort of holiday.

And he'd be damned if he'd let anyone try to talk him out of it.

oooo

"You can't be serious."

"Of course I can."

"Harry. I know you're tired. I know… I know it all. I mean," Hermione winced, "we're _all_ tired. Incredibly tired." She raised her brows slowly at him; the deep lines that formed in her forehead there drove her point home more than any further words she said possibly could. "It's just - if you're determined to be an Auror, don't you want to do real work, Harry? As in_ proper_ Auror work? Work that is clearly for the greater good?"

Harry frowned. "Hermione?" He reached over and rested a hand on her arm. "Rescuing kittens – much loved kittens – from trees – really, really tall trees - for the frail and elderly – the frail and elderly who've forgotten common spells - _is_ important work. Very important work."

She'd sighed at that.

He slipped his hand down to meet hers. "I'll tell you what. If another Evil Idiot plans to take over the world and starts lording about the countryside, reeking havoc?" He squeezed her hand in his comforting grasp, watching her worry-lines smooth out. "I shall leave the kitten up in the tree."

She awarded him a small, hopeful smile.

"At least for an hour or so," he added.

oooo

Harry let his latest cup of coffee seep slowly into his system as he looked out the window of Rudolph's Café and onto the street with an odd mixture of serious concern and (seriously concerning) mild intrigue.

Gregory Goyle, his school-time bully of apparently questionable faculties, whom Harry had not seen in _years_, had just followed Harry from the office to here, and was presently still outside.

When Harry had first retreated into Rudolph's, Goyle had, once more, hidden badly behind a pole. This time for perhaps two minutes, before the effort appeared to have become too taxing for him.

Then he'd yawned in a larger-than-life fashion (his jaw opening so wide birds could have called it their new home) at the same time as indulging in a leisurely stretch (his arms reaching outwards and moving about wildly in the air like unsteady propellers) before slumping wearily against a post box... a post box that was several feet away from the pole.

Soon after, he'd moved on to kicking an empty can up and down the footpath, before engaging in quite a gleeful 'open-hand, outstretched arms' chasing of pigeons.

Right in front of Rudolph's large, front windows. And, thus, right in front of Harry.

What an odd day. No. More like, what an odd _three _days.

_Merlin and his poodle in matching pink jumpsuits_, Harry thought grimly, his shoulders sagging. Malfoy had something to do with this; he just_ had_ to.

Harry's heart plummeted.

He contemplated drowning himself in his coffee, or handing himself over to the gods - good, evil, or otherwise, it didn't matter; they could take him, whatever their persuasion.

But, instead he went with the highly dignified act of almost-crying in a public setting.

What was happening to his life? What was _happening_ to it?

A man three stools down shifted uncomfortably away as Harry let out a ragged whimper.

oooo

Of course, Auroring in North England had not exactly been about kittens in trees. It seemed that this part of the country had its fair share of scattered Death Eaters, new bands of militia, independent masterminds, and even organised wizarding crime.

Harry didn't mind though. He'd surprisingly enjoyed making a difference still - only now he was doing it in a quieter fashion, perhaps even in a more autonomous fashion, as well, and wasn't that something to be thankful for?

In fact, there'd been quite a few big cases assigned to Harry and Harry was happy to put every one of the offenders he'd caught behind bars. Each time, after doing so, he'd even enjoyed his co-workers' response. The genuine pats on the back from Snufflehorn were always welcomed. Maureen baking a cake for all to enjoy at afternoon tea the next day was a sheer delight. He'd relished Gerard buying him those few beers from the local Muggle pub (knowing Gerard was still squeamish about wearing Muggle clothes _and _hobbling down the street on his wooden leg, being the king of Apparation and all) after his last big arrest. And he'd smiled each time Smithers excitedly outlined the important impact achievements like Harry's had on office morale.

There was something new and different about fighting evil and bad guys out here; the air felt fresher, the town felt quieter, and Harry Potter felt free.

The people felt warmer, too.

But the Bealsey case – the Beasley case? Well. It _hurt_.

oooo

_Ron,_

_I need my Invisibility Cloak back. ASAP.  
_

_Cheers,_

_Harry_

oooo

Harry walked back to the office the long way. Specifically, three times around the roundabout on Robbins Road, across the road on Smith, then back again, only to cross Smith Road once more. Followed by a swift walk all the way up the Adams Street hill, then all the way back down again, ending with a very obvious and quite long death stare in Goyle-pole's direction.

But it was all to no avail, for Gregory Goyle and his fondness for poles (and remaining ever so still behind them) continued in earnest.

Strange, but Harry – in a moment of serious madness that he should surely reflect upon later, possibly with a bottle of Firewhiskey in one hand and maybe even Hermione Granger's phone number in the other – supposed there were _worse _'tails' in the world to have than Gregory Goyle, _a lot_ worse.

He still wanted to cry a bit though.

oooo

_No, no, no_, he'd said to himself as he stood in front of Malfoy on that first day. _It _can't _be. _

The blond awarded him with his best smirk, effectively telling him: _Yes, it can_.

_Just - NO, _he'd almost growled out loud in defiance. Smirk be bloody damned! This wasn't happening!

Because this was why he'd come here, _this_.

North England was supposed to be his escape, his refuge, his haven.

It was supposed to be free from Malfoys! Free from scaling walls in the stark daylight wearing his God-awful stained and mismatching office gear. And free from… well, free from pole-loving Goyles.

Essentially, free from everything and everyone who had ever bothered him in the slightest! Okay, so that might be quite a long list, but - but _too bad_.

Surely he'd earned it; surely.

oooo

Five years ago, Harry killed a man.

He'd raised his wand and cast a spell and watched as the life-force, still somehow holding on, even after all the dividing of its soul, attempted to cling futilely to its mutated body. The snake eyes had flashed for the briefest of moments before they turned grey and lifeless.

It was then as if time had somehow decelerated; Harry watched as the figure fell slowly towards the ground.

It was done. And Harry could only stand there quietly at the other's feet.

The wind had whipped around him, ruffling his hair and rippling through the robes of the alive and the deceased; that is, Harry Potter, and Tom Riddle, respectively.

In that moment, he'd felt the culmination of seven years - no, of his entire _seventeen_ years of being - rain down on him and drench him.

He let out a futile sob. But he couldn't cry, he couldn't even cry.

Harry had hated that day. He'd _hated _it.

oooo

Four years ago, Harry had opened a decrepit pair of French doors, ignored the thud as one of the screws came loose and a door swung on its hinges, hitting the floor.

He looked out into the dusty, overgrown yard, beyond the burnt-out shell of an old car, beyond the rusty open fridge sitting on its side amongst tall, weedy grass, and beyond the wild goat that was feasting on a ratty rag hanging from the rotting fence. Instead he'd gazed towards the rolling hills that ascended and descended behind the property until they hit the horizon; he took in the view of a running brook far beyond the property, and several large trees that dotted the landscape. And he felt the rush of new beginnings and something else, something he'd never really felt before – perhaps, perhaps it was 'freedom'. Whatever it was, it flew through his veins like something rare and precious and, in that instant, he'd vowed to never leave.

He'd just bought a house. A home.

He was twenty years of age.

Harry had loved that day. He'd _loved _it.

oooo

_What? _

_Harry, mate. You said I could have it for a three weeks._

_I still need it; just for a bit longer. This is important. Really.  
_

_I've looked long and hard but I still haven't found Hermione's birthday present for me anywhere! I'm thinking of looking at mum and dad's place because I am a genius and she can't pull one over me, right?! _

_Plus - you'll love this - I've thought of three new pranks to pull on George, Fred, and Percy! Just wait _'_til you hear them, Harry; just wait!_

_Ron_

oooo

Three days ago, Harry Potter, had woken at six, munched absently on a well-balanced breakfast of oats and fruit, dressed himself in his office attire at a casual pace, and walked to work his most favoured way: down past the quaint Piccadilly Lane with all its roses in bloom, across the grassy park and through the tens of quacking ducks, along the edge of the pond admiring the blue sky and white clouds reflected in the still surface of the water, and then through the glass front doors of the Northern Auror Headquarters to start his day at work.

"Harry, m'boy!" Eldrid Snufflehorn, all-round good guy and very decent boss of his said, greeting him warmly as per always. "I've a _wonderful _surprise for you. Look who has just joined our little family here... Your old school mate!"

Harry turned and looked into the face of someone who he hadn't dared to even _conceive_ would re-enter his life, let alone be referred to, ever, as his 'mate'.

"Potter! It _is _a wonderful surprise, isn't it?" Draco Malfoy asked, a half-smirk stuck on his stupid face, his eyes twinkling stupidly.

Harry tried to remember the definition of 'wonderful' and what constituted _unlawful_ assault, and also how to speak. It seemed he'd forgotten all three in that instant. His hand, however, had not forgotten how to go right ahead and form a fist without even consulting him first, crushing a paper cup within his hand; a paper cup that was full of hot, burning liquid that is. Good thing Harry remembered the spell to heal burns.

oooo

Two days ago, Harry Potter had woken late at eight with a sigh. He'd huddled under his pillow for more snoozes than he could count before finally forcing himself out of bed. He'd quickly slurped through some watery porridge with a scowl, tossed on whatever clothes were clean, and proceeded to walk via his second most cherished route to work: by the antique stores along Hibbodsford Way - enjoying the sun on his face as he glanced into each shop window, excitedly making plans as to how to decorate his newly added sunroom (probably starting with an old upright piano - the kind with two candlestick holders on the front, and a restored Chippendale or balloon-back chair which would go nicely in the opposite corner) - before crossing at Banks Rd, making his way over the short bridge, and laughing as he watched several children skittering about at the river's edge, tossing handfuls of dirty water at each other whilst their parents' backs were turned.

All before entering Headquarters and being greeted again by Snufflehorn _and_ the Centre of All Evil, Draco Malfoy, as soon as he walked through the door.

"Harry, m'boy!" his boss, of rapidly declining praise in Harry's mind, greeted him. "Good news! We've decided to put Malfoy in the office across the hall from you!" The rotund man clapped his hands together, rocked on his feet, and chuckled lightly, affecting a very Father Christmas look. "Harry, m'boy? You and Malfoy will be like _neighbours_."

"Huh! How delightful! Isn't that something...? Neighbours!" Malfoy exclaimed in echo, with a grin that was a hare's breath away from inducing, in Harry, a rage befitting a troll, with all its verbal fluency to boot, too. Apparently.

"Oh… er... h-hm… s-snmpf," Harry stuttered.

Snufflehorn paused, for only a moment, to assess Harry's response, but seemed satisfied that it was a 'good' one - Harry had never once complained to him or denied the man a thing; a fact that Harry was now rapidly regretting - for Snufflehorn went on to say: "He's moving his things in straight away," while grinning, his cheeks rosy from the excitement. And Harry seriously wondered why he'd never thought to punch Snufflehorn.

"Straight away!" Malfoy repeated joyfully.

Harry went to Rudolph's 'straight away' and ordered a triple espresso. He restrained himself, though; he didn't order a second one until at least five minutes after downing the first.

oooo

This morning, on the third day of Malfoy, Harry Potter had woken at nine, dragged himself out of bed, skipped breakfast and threw on whatever his hands had first touched (_that_ turned out to be a chequered shirt with a large stain on it and a non-matching thick tweed jacket Harry noted much later) and walked to work via his most loathed way: along the dusty train tracks, down the gravelly road by the factory, shielding his face from the miserable drizzle that was sporadically descending upon him from the swollen clouds above. And then through Devon Street which housed the back of several restaurants, complete with their overloaded rubbish bins and their not exactly enticing buffet of smells.

And, no matter how hard he tried, his feet seemed to have enormous trouble spurring him forward. Like lazy adolescents who just couldn't be told, his feet kicked up dust and dragged rocks along the way with every laboured step he took.

_Come on, it's just Malfoy; you can do it_, he had gently urged his feet.

He was rapidly rethinking such encouragement when he arrived at work and found Snufflehorn and Malfoy again greeting him and again wearing matching grins.

"Harry, m'boy!"

Harry waited for the pain to hit him.

"Malfoy's offered to take a look at the Beasley file for you!"

Why did Harry Potter ever think Eldrid Snufflehorn was anything less than pure evil?

oooo

_Ron,_

_I mean no disrespect, but right now? I could _kill_ you._

_Harry_

oooo

On the outside of an inconspicuous building, Harry pressed his wand to three red bricks in remembered sequence and watched as a previously hidden door rippled into view.

Three minutes later, he was inside headquarters again, clinging once more to a wall and sliding through the general office area with bent knees. Calling upon all Auror-taught skills, he moved like a panther - a sliding, sidestepping panther, one who was unusually thankful for messy, overloaded desks. He was also glad that the office area was completely devoid of coworkers.

With a final sidestep, a quick diagonal roll (which he was getting quite good at), and he'd made it to his office door. He smirked and began to push himself up to his feet. 

A sardonic voice suddenly reached his ears. "Potter? What are you _doing_?"

Harry's eyes darted towards the owner.

Malfoy; it was Malfoy.

oooo


End file.
